


Lord have Mercy

by Nejinee



Series: Mercy MC [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Humor, M/M, Motorcycles, Motorcyle Club, Sons Of Anarchy - Freeform, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-13 09:26:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3376373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nejinee/pseuds/Nejinee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re so gross,” Sam said as he slammed the Impala’s door.<br/>“Hey! Easy on the car!” Dean barked.<br/>“Seriously?” Sam swivelled around to eye his older brother. “Could you have been more lecherous back there?”<br/>Dean shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe?”</p><p>-</p><p>Our boys are in a motorcycle gang. Cas is in a rival gang. Dean can't keep it together, apparently.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lord have Mercy

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little something I whipped up.  
> Rating is for language.

“Listen up!”

 

Castiel turned to the voice of their leader, Michael. The older man was lean, tan and had his black hair slicked back and newly trimmed, just how he liked it. Michael looked every bit like the man who enlisted early and got out clean. Well, sort of clean, if gun-running counted as a legal and opportunistically American enterprise. Castiel was starting to understand the value of their fearless boss’ need for showmanship. It had only been a scant few weeks and the leader of the Mercy MC had already left an imprint of sorts on the newly transferred Castiel.

 

“We do not need to waste time here with these idiots. Get the goods, trade-off and get out, all right?” Michael’s tone was firm, clear and concise. He pointed a finger at his brother who was leaning lazily against his beautiful bike. “And Luce, don’t fuckin’ say a word.”

 

The other, blonder man snorted. “Wouldn’t dream of it, oh brother mine.”

 

A loud gurgling rumble disturbed the achingly hot afternoon air. Castiel peered through the harsh sunlight, wishing he’d left his full jacket back at the House. He thought he should at least show a strong front from the outset. Plus, his leather jacket needed breaking in. It was annoying wearing something so new, something not yet moulded to his skin, not like his old jacket. Fuck, he was melting already. His bike was already hot beneath his weight. The others were wearing their damn vests. Fuck.

“God, here they come,” Gabriel said with a sigh. 

Castiel frowned. This would be his first real interaction with their neighbouring MC. Sure, even he knew the history between the Mercy and Lawrence crews wasn’t all chocolates and rainbows, but they had to do business with one another nonetheless. 

He lifted his leg up and over his Harley, understanding that they had to, at least, show a united front.

Castiel came to stand beside Gabriel as the rumbling only got louder.

“Fuckin’ idiots,” Uriel grumbled as three massive cars swung around the corner, heralding the appearance of none other than the Lawrence Crew.

“They really think it’s still nineteen eighty-two, don’t they?” Lucifer chuckled.

“Pimpin’ is the term you might be lookin’ for there, Luce,” Gabriel chuckled.

Castiel knew cars and he was more than a little awed by the pristine condition of the orange, what could only be a seventy-five, Thunderbird that rolled up onto the curb nearby. A grey Mustang GT folded itself in alongside the Thunderbird, its gleam almost blinding Castiel. It was one of the newer, crazier models, stripes and all, and it took Castiel’s breath away.

“Hoo-wee,” Gabriel sighed, almost in love he seemed, with the vehicles. 

Raphael glared at him. There was to be no appreciation of another crew’s gear whatsoever. 

 

Gabriel looked like he was about to snap something back when a magnificently kept and beautifully maintained black Chevy sixty-seven Impala rumbled around the bend, revving loudly, obnoxiously, before sliding up along the curb on the other side of the road, giving everyone a front row seat to its fuckin’ runway show.

Gabriel whistled. “ _Damn_ , brother,” he crooned. He nudged Castiel in the side.

Cas didn’t respond but he was in full agreement that _that_ was one hell of a machine. God, it looked like it got a wax _weekly._ Its fucking rims shone like the sun and not a streak was to be seen on its chrome detailing. He almost wanted to pat his own bike, reassuring his baby that the Chevy was no contest beside her robust good looks. He was just … observing.

 

Castiel probably shouldn’t have been staring at the car across the street. What kind of distraction tactic was that, anyway? Amateur at best. Machismo, narcissistic behaviour.

Three men approached from the Thunderbird and GT, so Cas tried to refocus. An old guy, a black guy and a barrel-chested dude. They wore their vests, the large ‘LC’ sewn into the black leather fronts indicating exactly to what crew they belonged.

The old guy spoke first from beneath a damn baseball cap of all things.

“Lookin’ shiny there, boys,” he said, tilting his head back. “Heat a bit much for ya?”

“Cut the shit, Bobby,” Michael sneered, clearly put off already. “We don’t have time for your banter today.”

Cas should have been listening. Hell, he should’ve been waiting for his cue, knowing how Michael had not been looking forward to this meet-up. 

Except he was distracted, again. 

Two men had unfolded themselves from the black Impala and were loping across the street. Both were tall and lanky. The one on the right was monstrously tall, in fact, his black bandanna wrapped loosely around his neck, arms waving as he spoke animatedly to the man beside him. He wore the standard MC leather vest over a white tee,which only aided in showing off his arms which were covered in ink. That alone naturally caught Castiel’s gaze. He had heard about the Lawrence tradition of marking. Sure, every MC had its symbols, its brands. If it wasn’t some kind of animal, it was all sorts of symbology or fuckin’ latin poetry that members covered themselves in. Each member marked for who they were, where they came from. Part of Cas’ job was understanding all of that so the rest of the crew didn’t have to. His job was to spot an outsider immediately and report exactly from which part of the continental United states they hailed from and the crew could then decide, based on such given info, whether or not to waste the newcomers or welcome them in open (knife up sleeve, don’t get cocky) arms.

Lawrence Crew members were inked in jet black. Always and only jet-black.

 

The other man, now he loped confidently beside the tall guy, his legs bowed, but strong beneath a pair of torn, tight black jeans that _clung_ in all the right–

Cas swallowed.

This guy? Shit. This guy was somethin’ else.

He had his black Lawrence leather jacket on, open in the heat, but collar popped, showcasing a long column of skin that stretched from chiseled jaw covered in scruff, down under a thin black t-shirt that was ancient, worn soft, almost see-through from age, its neckline clearly cut open, torn low. Low enough to show off an amazing set of tats. Squinting, Castiel could make out some kind of gothic script weaving under a pair of sharp, tan collarbones.

 

Castiel shook his head.

Shit. Michael was talking.

 

* * *

 

 

“Benny,” Bobby growled, hand flicking. “Bring our guests their booty.”

Dean reached them just as Benny hefted a box outta his trunk, all nonchalant-like. As if it didn’t weigh a damn ton.

“They got the whole posse out, huh?” Dean breathed to Sammy.

“Looks like it,” Sam breathed, gaze moving over the Mercy MC. “Seven? Really?”

“Overkill,” Dean snorted.

“Show of numbers, I guess,” Sam said softly. For such an innocuous meeting? Ridiculous is what it was. 

 

Dean folded his arms across his chest and glared at the other crew. He hated these douchebags. Initially he wasn’t slated to follow along, but Bobby insisted.

 

“Best in the business,” Bobby said loudly, distracting Dean and tapping the box in Benny’s bulging arms. Dean could hear Bobby’s smile from a mile away. Smug old coot. He knew the other crews couldn’t get their hands on better papers than what Lawrence had. Nothing beat Sammy’s touch of sheer blinding attention to detail and ‘authenticity’ when it came to counterfeit, well, _everything._

“Mind if I peruse the goods?” Lucifer, the creepy bastard, leered. God, after all these years he still gave Dean the willies.

Michael put his arm out, stopping the crazy fucker from getting too close. Learnt from last time, huh? 

“No, I’m certain Bobby’s _boys_ ,” here his dark gaze swept over Sam and Dean like they were slugs invading his precious tomato patch, “have worked their hardest on our request. Right?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean blurted out, annoyed already by the whole fucking endeavour.

“Dean,” Bobby looked over, brow arched. 

“Yeah, cool your hound,” Lucifer smirked. “Or get a tighter leash.”

 

“How ‘bout you shut your fuckin’ face?” Dean spat, not moving. Trash talk? Easy shit. Dean loved bringing his scintillating personality to such affairs.

 

Benny sighed heavily and dropped the box he’d been carrying. He kicked it over to Michael, kicking up dirt, clearly done with waiting. “You gon’ take that or what?” he rumbled easily.

 

Michael, the fucker, just rolled his eyes. “Castiel,” he said breathed tiredly like some kind of overworked emperor. “Bring these gentlemen their goods.” Who was he? Some fancy fuckin’ dipshit? God, it’s like MCs were falling prey to the upperclass or some sh–

 

Oh.

 

Dean’s eyes lit up. What was _this_? Or rather, _who?_

“Looks like the Mercy got themselves some fresh meat,” Dean drawled softly to Sam.

Sam was squinting over there. “Yeah. Huh.” he said. “Weird. He’s not family. Far as I can remember, anyway.”

“You sure?” Dean said, eyeing the guy up. He looked like he coulda been related to Michael. The guy had like, a gajillion siblings anyhow, what was one more cousin, or whatever?

 

The guy had turned, then had bent down (oh, yes) near the Mercy’s lined up Harleys, lifting and heaving a massive, oblong bag onto one shoulder. Benny waited, hands on hips, for the trade.

The guy turned, moved smoothly, almost unconcerned with the weight he carried. He stood beside Michael, then looked at his leader. 

Michael nodded.

 

“Whoa, whoa,” Dean pushed forward, hand patting against Benny’s broad chest, “I got this, big boy.”

 

“Huh?” he heard Benny huff as he pushed past.

 

“ _Dean,”_ Sam hissed from somewhere behind him.

 

Dean ignored him and stepped into the space between the two groups. The other guy with the bag approached.

 

Huh. Guy was strong, going by the way he didn’t so much as lean an inch under the weight of that fucking massive bag. Dark, messy hair exploded from the guy’s head. It was thick hair and looked fuckin’ soft as all hell. Dean wouldn’t have minded giving it a tug or two.

 

“The fuck are you?” Dean said sharply once the guy got close. Dean could see sweat settling on the guy’s sharply tanned cheeks and neck. Yeah, their summers were brutal. “You didn’t say you got a new bitch, Mikey,” Dean drawled, eyes raking over the newbie. Man, look at those peepers! Dean licked his lips absently, taking in those dark, dark lashes and those soft, pink lips. Lips worthy of a damn fine workout.

 

“Castiel,” the guy said and _holy fuck_ , what a voice.  

 

“Dean,” Dean answered back immediately, almost eager. 

 

“Winchester,” the guy said calmly. “Yes, I see. Like the gun.” Big, sharp blue eyes stared back at Dean, unwavering. 

 

“Yeah, buddy. Ten out of ten. A-plus. Hand the goods over.” Dean’s hands opened, palms up, fingers flicking in a ‘gimme’ motion.

 

This _Castiel_ stared at him like he was trying to read his mind. Those _eyes_ with those _lashes_ crawled down over Dean, clearly taking in his tattoos, his markings. Dean himself took time to rove his gaze over the guy. He wondered if the traditional Mercy tats were hidden under those soft layers. Mmm. Were his arms littered with angels and wings and shit? Were there stars ringing his hipbones? Scripture along his spine? 

 

Dean snapped his fingers. When Castiel looked up again, he blinked.

Dean grinned wolfishly. “My eyes are up here,” he drawled lazily.

 

“Oh for the love of _God_ ,” Lucifer snapped. “Castiel!”

 

That seemed to do the job. The dark-haired dude hoisted the bag off his shoulder and held it out calmly as Dean hefted it onto his own shoulder. _Shit._ God, the bag really did weigh a mega half-ton. Jeez, this is what Benny was for. Ugh, protocol made sense.

 

If Dean had gum in his mouth he woulda snapped it with a grin. “Thanks, Cas,” he winked. “See ya round.”

 

“Get away from him,” Lucifer hissed. Dean wasn’t sure who he was talking to but it was amusing nonetheless.

 

When Dean turned, his own crew looked mystified, almost bewildered.

 

“What?” he asked sharply, even as Sam’s eyes rolled so obviously, he could probably see the inside of his own skull.

 

* * *

 

 

“You’re so gross,” Sam said as he slammed the Impala’s door.

“Hey! Easy on the car!” Dean barked.

“Seriously?” Sam swivelled around to eye his older brother. “Could you have _been_ more lecherous back there?”

Dean shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe?”

He started up his baby’s engine, pleased by the rumbling purr.

Seven motorcycles roared to life and Dean and Sam looked up just as the Mercy MC peeled out of the shady warehouse parking lot they’d agreed to meet on.

 

Dean made sure to wave cheerfully as they rumbled by. 

“Damn,” he murmured as the last one, clearly the new guy, Castiel’s bike, roared past, its rider with his newly distinct black and blue helmet covering up those crazy locks of midnight-coloured hair. And by the looks of the guy’s denim, his legs were in no way to be overlooked either–

 

“Dean!” Sam barked.

 

“ _What_?” Dean turned sharply to glare at his bitch-faced baby brother.

 

Sam just sighed dramatically like a princess. “You know, you’re lucky eye-fucking isn’t illegal, or you’d be serving twenty years at the state level.”

 

“Ah, keep your panties on, Sammy!” Dean said as his baby purred under the throttle. “’S not like we’ll be working with those fuckers anytime soon!”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I may add some more to this. D: If so, feel free to subscribe to the series.
> 
> I know I should be focusing on my other stories, but dayum! The boys in leather? C'mon, Sammy!
> 
> Also, the Lawrence MC does have bikes. ;) just not seen.


End file.
